A nude delivery girl tells her story.

Sometime between the porch and the end of the night, it appeared you had blown way past your limit. Your typically smooth gait became an unsteady swerve, your jokes turned racier, and your voice became loud and slurry. As everyone began gathering their purses and keys, Amy asked me if I was ready to leave. "He's definitely not ok to drive," I thumbed in your general direction, "I appreciate you picking me up earlier but I think I'm going to drive his car home and make sure he makes it in ok." Amy agreed and offered, "That's probably a good idea. I'll follow you and drive you the rest of the way home."

"Don't be silly," I waved her off, "I live around the corner from him, I'll just walk." After several annoying minutes of convincing Amy to leave me to my plan, I dragged you to your car and buckled you in. We drove the few miles to your house without speaking. I pulled into your driveway and glanced over to see you passed out. I gave your shoulder a shove, "We're here." You pried yourself away from the cool window with a groan. I knew you were going to hate yourself in the morning. Leading you by the hips, I guided you up the front steps as you fumbled in your pocket for your house keys. "Fuck," you grumbled, "I left my keys at Todd's."

And back to the car we went. Rather than take you all the way back to their house, I made the fateful decision to take you to mine. After doing the whole song and dance again, I struggled to hold on to you as I dug through my purse for my house keys. Once we made it through the door, I tossed my purse in the dark to the entry table I knew would be there to catch it. As I turned around to flip the light on, I felt strong hands grab me from behind, spinning me around. My scream was muffled by lips and a tongue that probed my mouth unapologetically as I was literally swept off my feet.

I suddenly realized it wasn't an intruder who had picked me up into a fireman's carry, but rather the very intoxicated man who moments earlier needed assistance walking up three steps. "Woah, woah," I pulled away from his face, "Put me down before you drop-"

"I'm not drunk." You proclaimed as you started up the stairs, "The beer I opened in the garage with you was my last one."

"Bullshit," I argued, "You passed out in the car."

Stopping halfway up the staircase, you smiled as you smugly recalled, "You sang every word of 'Friends in Low Places' when it came on the radio, you rolled through a stop sign at Eighth and Main, and you sprayed yourself with the perfume from under your seat before waking me up in the driveway."

I slapped your arm playfully, "You're such a shit!"

You tossed me on my half-made bed before throwing your keys (that's right, your keys) on the nightstand, and crawled up to me. "Finally bought us a night together, didn't I? And no one will think twice about my car being in your driveway all night." I was tingling from head to toe, thrust into the realization that for one night, we didn't have to lie, pretend, hurry or be quiet.

I pulled your face to mine, hungry for what I'd been craving for so long.